The Exoneration
by I'm All Teeth
Summary: Draco has just finished serving his sentence in Azkaban. Hermione has just been transferred into a desk job at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement where she is a paper pusher and (sometimes, begrudgingly) a parole officer.When dark events start following the Malfoy heir. Hermione's job and Draco's future are hinging on the unlikely pair's ability to prove Draco's innocence.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** I don't own any of the characters. I don't own the song that I listened to over and over while writing this. I don't own anything, ok?

This is the first chapter in a continued story. (My first not one-shot! Hurray!)

Reviews are motivation.

_Song: "The World Spins Madly On" By The Weepies_

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**Chapter 1: He was nothing if not numbers and memories**

* * *

He turned twenty last Wednesday. She will be twenty-one in mid September. He wonders what day of the week it will be. He knows the date, but not the day. It seems the reverse of how it should be, but when he thinks about her, everything is upside down and inside out, so maybe this isn't such a surprise.

Life has been difficult, to say the least, but he doesn't want to think about that right now. At this moment, as the Thestral-drawn carriage takes him away from Azkaban, he does not want to think about the bad things. He's had lots and lots of time to think about the difficult things – sixty weeks of thinking, to be exact. Presently, all he wants to remember is the good things. Not, of course, that there have been a wide array of good things. His gains and assets in this world are mostly tactile, with very few lasting or rewarding friendships.

Even family is woefully inadequate, if he is going to be completely honest (which he fully plans to be this time around). His mother is sitting across from him and she looks as regal as a queen, but the way she presses her lips together indicates that she doesn't know what to say. Her hands are clasped in front of her, which means that she wants to know how he is; that she's been terribly worried. The dark circles that have been concealed by makeup and the hollowness of her cheeks shouts that she has not been able to sleep or eat properly, knowing that he has been suffering. The way her ankles are crossed and her feet knock gently against his in time with the swaying of the carriage tell him that she loves him very, very much and that she is so, so happy to have him with her again.

But he is nothing if not slightly vindictive, and _he_ has been locked in the worst wizarding prison, not _her_, and so he is going to make her hold her breath for a little longer. Maybe she'll be able to empathize a little better then. Besides, he does not want to think about his mother right now. He has waited four hundred and twenty days to think about something that does not make a tiny snake of self-righteous anger curl tightly around his heart. He blames so much of what has happened on his parents that he is not sure that he will ever be able to tell his mother that he loves her (and mean it) again. The way his mother's eyes flick cautiously over his face makes him want to burn something down or tear something up.

He knows he is not much to look at right now, and so he wishes that she would not stare. Razors are not allowed in Azkaban, and so he has not shaved in 10080 hours (give or take a few. He's just doing basic calculations here, not advanced arithmancy). The food in jail is atrocious, and he has always been a picky eater, and so he is gaunt, skeletal. Although in most recent months he has eaten whatever has been put before him, not particularly caring what he was ingesting. He has heard stories of people released from Azkaban who cannot eat rich foods ever again. He hopes that he is not going to be stuck in culinary limbo forever. His cold gray eyes stare flatly, he knows. The outside of the carriage has been polished so well that he was able to catch his own reflection in it. He looked older than his barely-twenty years. Not quite wizened. More like a muggle mountain man like the one he had seen in a history book at some point; Far away and scruffy. Under the scruff there are scars that very few people have seen yet, but they add to his wildness. He knows this is how he honestly looks, but he wishes his mother wouldn't stare. It's rude. And a Malfoy is nothing if not polite.

He stares blankly out the window. It is not an effort to keep his face impassive. He has not had to make a face for anyone in more than a year, and so neutrality is second-nature now. He wonders how much of the old-him is dead for good. But he doesn't want to think about that. He wants to think about something alive and bright.

Her face does not rise to the top of his memory instantly. At first he is not sure if he can remember her at all, and he wonders vaguely if this should be a reason to panic, even though he doesn't feel like he should. Seconds tick by and he watches the gray ocean rush far below them before he remembers her. The first thing he conjures in his mind is her owl's nest of brow hair. You could probably lose quills in that mess. He thinks of the way her hair catches the sunlight as she whips her face around to answer someone who's talking to her. Probably Potter or one of the innumerable Weasels (he didn't know how many there actually were; they seemed to reproduce like rabbits). Then he remembered her mouth, turned downward in concentration in class, her small pink tongue forced between her lips. He remembered it as a wide smile, laughing at some joke he hadn't heard. Her front teeth were a little too big, but it was only noticeable if you knew what you were looking for and even then it was only endearing. He didn't linger too long on his memories of her nose, which came next. He had very little attachment to her nose; it just never seemed significant.

He tries to remember her eyes, as they should naturally appear next in his mind's eye, but for some reason, he couldn't remember those. He didn't even know what color they were. Something unhappy woke up inside of him.

He pressed his memory further. He remembered her hands, white-knuckled around her wand, scared and ferocious. When he thought of "Gryffindor Courage," the mystical beast he had never been able to capture himself, he thought of those hands- terrified of whatever they were pointing at- how even though they quaked, they never wavered in their resolve. He remembered her skinny legs in their uniform skirt, one sock rolled halfway down her leg, forgotten as she chased some idea that was supposedly more important than appropriate attire. He remembered her thin shoulders, squared against him in determined annoyance. Her neck, long and graceful, never adorned with any jewelry; perfect in its simplicity. There was not much to say about the parts that generally distinguished the finer sex from his own; she had been barely full-grown the last time he had seen her. What sort of woman had she turned into, he wondered. He was sure she was beautiful, whoever she was now.

But what color were her eyes?

Panic was an unfamiliar sensation in his limbs, but there it unmistakably was, like the first crack of the ice on a river in the spring. He had nothing if not a good memory, so why couldn't he remember her eyes?

He had to think of something else. Suddenly, he desperately needed to think of something good. No, not just good. Something he had done that was good.

Well, his options were fairly limited, weren't they?

He had not had a particularly philanthropic or generous life so far, but the few moments where he had done right by a fellow human being without the promise of reciprocation he cherished like jewels. All of them involved her, so he selected his favorite.

She was fifteen. He was fourteen. It was nearing Christmas and the Great Hall was snowing gently. It was the Yule Ball and there were hundreds of candles floating above them. He was dancing with Pansy when he first spotted her, although he did not recognize her immediately. She was wearing a pink dress. Or was it purple? He wasn't paying articular attention to the dress, focusing instead on the young woman beneath it.

The first thing that caught his attention was her hair, which was prettily swept away from her face and neck. Then he noticed the brightness of her smile. He hadn't seen her eyes then, since she was not looking in his direction at all. He loved the graceful slope of her neck and the way he could see the promise of curves under the dress. She was, he assumed, one of the girls from Beauxbatons. Introducing himself to her would allow him the opportunity to practice his French (he was nothing if not a skilled Francophone) and hopefully securing himself a place in her heart (and perhaps bedroom, if he could be so presumptuous).

His hopeful arrogance had been thwarted when he turned his attention to her partner. Krum. Champion of Durmstrang and Quidditch, bearing the IQ of a small but good natured lizard and the physique of Atilla the Hun. More or less the polar opposite of him. He deflated, instantaneously giving up all hope of a possible tete a tete with his nameless French beauty.

Thus, he spent the remainder of the evening among his fellow Slytherins, having a decent time but still unable to tear his gaze from the pretty girl in pink/purple. At some point in the evening, he tore himself away from his date (which was a mean feat in and of itself) in order to fetch them both drinks. Holding two butterbeers, he was on his way back to their table when he spied his mystery girl in a heated conversation with none other that Potty and the Weasel. She looked greatly displeased and when the three separated, she was obviously the worse for the wear.

It was not a sense of chivalry that compelled him to follow her out into the beautiful and bespelled gardens, merely a sense of curiosity and the Slytherin nose for opportunity. She had slumped against the second-to-top step in tragic beauty, her face hidden behind graceful fingers. As he neared her, he noticed her thin shoulder were shaking with silent sobs. She was crying. Did the Gryffindolts do this to her? He quietly cleared his throat above her, determined to set the record straight that not all Hogwarts students were so uncouth. She looked up at him, hope glowing in her tear-filled eyes.

Oh.

He finally recognized her. Beneath the makeup and the dress and the glamor was the mudblood know-it-all who had plagued his existence like a buck-toothed, bushy-headed mosquito forever in his ear. This, however, was not the foremost thought in his mind. The thought that almost caused him to turn his lip in the usual sneer was that Granger was in love with the Weaselbee. Everybody knew it, except, apparently, the red-headed baboon himself.

"Oh." Said Granger hopelessly. She sniffled unattractively, her eyes narrowing as she prepared for a fight, "Come to have a good laugh, Malfoy?" She asked bitterly.

Again, the impulse to sneer was strong, but he checked it; He was nothing if not a great appreciator of feminine beauty. Instead, he held one of the butterbeers out to her. Cautiously, as though worried it would leap up and bite her, she took it. Her eyes still followed him suspiciously as he sat beside her on the step. He took a swig of his own drink before speaking.

"Look, Granger, if you tell anyone about this, I'll deny it, but you're the prettiest girl here and Weasley's a fool not to see it."

She blinked, startled and at a loss for words for what was quite probably the first time ever. After a few sense seconds, she sniffed again and looked at him sideways, daring him to take it back now.

"Really?" She asked tentatively.

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt." He affirmed, smiling genuinely at her. She smiled back and for the first time, he realized that Granger was not unattractive for a commoner and a mudblood. He mentally checked himself. Those were dangerous thoughts. "Now," He sighed, rising to his feet and fixing his robes, "I have a ball to enjoy and I suggest you do the same."

As he walked toward the ballroom and the ever-awaiting Pansy, he heard a very soft "Thank you."

His heart soared, and he passed the rest of the evening in a blur of happiness and warmth. He even almost enjoyed Pansy's company (after she had forgiven him for taking so long with the butterbeers). He glimpsed Granger once on the dance floor, but had not been able to catch her eye. Perhaps it was for the best, though, since it allowed him a free glimpse of her smile and th satisfaction of knowing that he had put it there.

He was jarred from his reverie physically when the Thestrals landed, the carriage bumping violently against the cobblestones outside of The Manor.

"We're home," Announced his mother imperiously. She clasped and reclapsed her hands, which meant that she wasn't sure she had said the right thing and she wanted approval.

He smiled thinly at her around the beard and scars. The motion was alien to his face, but he forced it anyway. For her sake. His mother smiled back, tentatively at first, and then more fully. It was a smile that she did not show the outside world; it was something she guarded and only took out for those closest to her. She brushed her hands over his softly. It was the first human contact that he'd had in a year and two months and the motion caused electricity to run up his spine and his face to snap up in attention.

"I've missed you, Draco." She volunteered quietly.

"And I've missed you, Mother." He replied as the servant opened the door. He looked into the young squibb's eyes as he descended the carriage steps. They were a muddy brown and anxious.

Something clicked into place in his head. Big brown eyes suspicious of his every move, shooting daggers at him across a room, looking thankfully into his own colorless ones. The ice around his heart thawed a little more and he took his first steps on his native soil (cobblestones) as a free wizard.

Draco was home and with no time to spare. Tomorrow he was going to meet his parole officer and wanted to be clean shaved, decently dressed, and at least decently fed before then.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:** I still don't own anything. Everything belongs to JKR. I just sort of hero-worship her.

The more reviews I get, the happier I am and the more I am motivated to update this.  
I'm also looking for song recommendations, if you're inclined to give them.

Song: _"Falling" - Florence and the Machine_

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**Hermione and the New Job**

**Sunday**

Hermione Granger unlocked her apartment and threw her jingling keys into the little ceramic dish beside the door. Crookshanks ran to greet her, rubbing across her shins, leaving orange fur embedded in her stockings. She brushed a rebellious curl out of her face, and smiled down at his squashed and inquisitive face.

"Hello, boy," She murmured, "Are you hungry?" With a wave of her wand, she illuminated the interior of her little home. She lived alone with her cat above Flourish and Blott's and was not sure if there were more books downstairs or up here. To use the word "bibliophile" would be to understate Hermione's love of books and "overstuffed" would not do her one-bedroom apartment justice. She refused to ever get rid of a book, and so her seven years' worth of Hogwart's school books and every other tome she had managed to collect did not fit neatly into the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in her tiny living room, and spilled onto the low coffee table and were stacked on either side of the worn and cat-scratched couch. The overflow of books had not stopped there, either. The kitchen table was buried in open volumes and closed books, most of which had loose pages sticking out at odd angles. The kitchen counter and stove were no better. Had Hermione any inclination towards the culinary arts (she found them to be a waste of time and easily avoided – she did live in Diagon Alley, after all), this would have posed quite a fire hazard, but as things stood, her stove functioned mostly as convenient place for books she would rather read standing up.

She pulled a container of dry cat food out of a cupboard above the kitchen sink, and paused. The receptacle in question had been sandwiched between Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and The Mind of a Death Eater. With one hand, she took out Crookshank's food and pulled the latter title from the shelf with her other. She had been looking for that book since yesterday and was quite pleased to have found it again. Tucking the slim book under one arm, she fed the cat and went back to the door to collect her mail.

There were only three things in the mailbox: The evening copy of _The Prophet_, a postcard from her parents that had a huge image of Syndey's Aquarium on the front, and a thick, square envelope with glittery gold writing and no return address. She dropped _The Profit_ onto the kitchen table and took the remaining items into the living room, the book still under her arm. She sat heavily onto the couch and turned over the post card.

_Hermione-_

_ Daddy and I are doing well. Went to the aquarium today (it's on the front). Daddy loved the sharks and I thought the turtles were darling. We head back to Canberra tomorrow. Vacation is splendid but we do wish you could be here, too. How is the new job going? Making many new friends? Be sure to eat enough and don't forget to floss your teeth!_

_ Love,_

_ Mummy_

Crookshanks leaped onto her lap and she stroked him absentmindedly, turning her attention to the unmarked envelope. In the better light, she could see that it was a light shade of purple. With a sense of foreboding, she turned it over and slit it open expertly with her wand. The envelope held a large card, a smaller one, and an envelope. Deciding to give her attention to the largest piece first, she discarded the other two on top of the postcard from her parents.

After a moment of reading (there were not many words), she delicately placed the large purple square on the corner of the coffee table and wondered if incendio-ing it would be too much of a fire hazard in her fammable-item-filled apartment.

She glared down at the faces of Ronald Weasley and Lavender Brown. Over and over again, the two young people in the photo shared a passionate kiss briefly before flashing flushed smiles at the camera. Any idiot could see that they were in madly and passionately in love and it made her want to vomit.

Hermione took a steadying breath, strangely aware of her heart beating evenly in her chest. She did not feel sad. She did not feel anything, actually, except for an uncanny numbness and an overwhelming desire to set something on fire. The news of their engagement was not new to her. In fact, she had learned about it months ago when Harry had excitedly asked her if she was going to the wedding. At first, she expected that her invitation was simply taking a few extra days in getting to her. After a while, though, it became painfully obvious that she was not going to be invited. When pressed, Harry confessed sheepishly that Lavender wasn't too cozy with the idea of Ron's ex-girlfriend attending their wedding. Hermione felt a stab of misplaced emotion at this recollection. She was _not_ just an 'ex-girlfriend'. She was a best friend – or at least she thought she was. They had been through so much together and understood each other so well that had someone told her prior to this year that she would not be invited to Ron's wedding, she would either have laughed or wondered about their sanity.

Secretly, though, she was glad not to be invited and not terribly surprised that she wasn't.

She was secretly glad because, while she and Ron had broken up on amiable enough terms (he had said he was awfully sorry but he wanted to see other people, and she had agreed that that was awful), her heart still turned nastily in her chest when she thought about Lavender seeing Ron's freckled face unguarded while he slept or brushing his carrot-colored hair out of his face. His ears turned red when he was embarrassed and his eyes changed color with the weather. The idea that the simpering and empty-headed Lavender now knew these things and was the only one who had the right to them made something protective and proud in Hermione very unhappy, and because of this, she was not sure that she could attend the wedding and be expected not to hex someone (particularly a certain girl who was named after a certain color).

She was not terribly surprised that she had not been invited because Ron had gone out of his way to avoid her since the break up (she may have said a few things that she didn't mean about his mother and certain pieces of his anatomy; wands may have been involved at some point, but she had sent an owl of apology with instructions for a counter-jinx two days later and really, the damage hadn't been that bad). After the final pleasantries and the division of their belongings when Ron moved out, though, he had not said a word to her. He had been mysteriously unavailable whenever she looked for him in the Auror's office (which was one hallway over from her new office) and was always just leaving when she had gone to visit him and Harry at the apartment they shared above Quality Quidditch Supplies, two doors down from her own room.

All of these were old emotions, though, and Hermione had successfully accepted all of them months ago. The problem was that Lavender and her precious Won-Won suddenly had the audacity to send her an invitation a mere six weeks and six days before the ceremony.

She turned her attention to the smaller piece of parchment now. It wanted to know if she was attending and if she was, how many people she would be bringing. For a moment, she entertained the idea of going. She looked down at Crookshanks, who was now curled in her lap. No, she couldn't go to the wedding. If she did, she would be going alone and she would positively die before admitting to Ron that, while he was headed into a future of marital bliss (or possible regret tinged with annoying nicknames; it was Lavender he was marrying, after all), she would be going home alone to her cat and books. The corner of her mind that was devoted to pride and self-respect blanched at the very idea. She couldn't very well burn the thing, either, though. To do so would be endangering her precious book collection.

Sighing, she abandoned the wedding invitation on the coffee table and turned her attention to The Mind of a Death Eater. There was no point in worrying about Ron right now. She had more important things to worry about and preparing for work tomorrow was at the very top of her list.

* * *

**Monday Morning**

Hermione liked her desk; it was clean and large and it belonged exclusively to her, and so it was a step up from the one she had shared with the photographer Arthur Creevey when she had worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It was, as far as she was concerned, the best part of being transferred to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There weren't many upsides to her new job besides the size of her desk.

Of course at first she had been excited about the transfer, which her ex-boss Zacharias Smith had wrapped up as a "promotion" but was really just a way to get her and her radical ideas about Elfish welfare out of his hair.

"But the elves don't _want_ to be free." He had argued every time she brought an episode of House-Elf injustice to his attention.

Well, she had to admit that was true, but only because they didn't know any better. It also didn't change the fact that they should be treated with some level of decency, at least.

As she gave her transfer more consideration, she realized that this could be just the change she was looking for. Law had always fascinated her, and no one could say that she didn't have an intimate knowledge and respect for the law (well, mostly books and history, but law was close enough to that). She was being transferred to the Wizengamot Administration Services Office, which meant that she was going to be something like a wizarding lawyer, and prime candidacy for a membership in the Wizengamot somewhere down the line if she were smart enough.

In reality, though, it meant doing the same thing that she did in her former office (paperwork) with a new boss. There were only two real differences between her old location an her new one. The first was that she did not know the people in her new department and she didn't have much of a chance to get to know them because everyone had their own personal office (with a door- another difference). The second was that one of her new duties (the only one, in fact, that did not involve a quill and six to ten rolls of parchment) was that she was now a probation officer for a handful of released prisoners from Azkaban and it was her responsibility to ensure that they reintegrated successfully into wizarding society and did not revert to whatever harmful behavior had landed them in prison in the first place. She was not supposed to think of herself as a "probation officer," according to her new boss. She was simply familiarizing herself with some of the people who went through her department on a more personal level.

As she had only been part of the WAS Office for two months, she had so far been awarded stewardship over Mundungus Fletcher (Hermione was hoping to keep him out of prison for good – third time was the charm, as she was constantly reminding him), Atticus Hodgins, and Hestia Prynne. None of her three criminals (charges, she mentally corrected. The rest of the world thought of them as criminals and that, she was sure, only contributed to the notion that they could not change- an idea which she absolutely abhorred and disbelieved completely) were serious offenders and she couldn't help but feel that Percy (no relation to any of the Weasleys), her new boss, was intentionally keeping the more difficult cases from his newest employee.

That, however, was going to change today! He had informed her last Friday that today she would be getting her first Death Eater. Anxious to learn about her newest charge, she arrived fifteen minutes early and excitedly took her mail from the department secretary. She rifled through her missives, looking for the manila envelope that would hold the details of her new case. Locating it, she opened it with excited fingers and pulled the packet of pages out of it.

A pointed, ferret-like face stared angrily up at her from the first page, the name DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY stamped underneath. She mentally counted to ten as she took intentionally deep breaths. Her good mood was instantly gone. Why did it have to be Malfoy? He had been absolutely antagonistic for the majority of their youth, but rare instances of kindness had caused her to seriously believe that he might (maybe) have a soul. This uncertainty unnerved her more than anything. Could she handle being his parole officer, given their history?

She reached ten in her mental counting and started again from one.

She was just being silly. She had no doubt that she could keep Malfoy in line. He was relatively intelligent and probably wouldn't want to go back to Azkaban any more than she wanted to send him back there (it would feel too much like a red-inked failure across the record of her life). Malfoy's case had been highly publicized, since he had been the youngest Death Eater convicted and since the Malfoy family was wealthy and influential in the ministry, notwithstanding the unusual nature of the crimes he committed. Maybe if she handled it well, Percy and the rest of the office would take her seriously. She allowed a moment to imagine herself in the purple robes of the Wizengamot, or at least a more dignified position in the office, these silly parole cases foisted onto some other unfortunate newcomer.

Yes, she would take the Malfoy case, and she would make sure he stayed on the straight and narrow!

* * *

Hermione looked up from the report she was writing at the enchanted clock on the wall. It was 8:59 in the morning and apparently it was lightly drizzling outside. She mentally congratulated herself for thinking to bring her umbrella. There was a rap at the door.

"Come in," She called loudly, and Draco Malfoy appeared in the doorway. With some annoyance, she watched as his eyes fell on her and then flicked back to the number outside of her office. _No, unfortunately for both of us, you're in the right place. _She thought savagely. Outwardly, though, she assumed a visage of impartial hospitality.

"Come in," She repeated, "I'm just finishing up something. Please sit down." She gestured to the chair sitting on the other side of her desk and was more than a little surprised when Malfoy silently did as he was told.

Looking up from her report through her eyelashes, she observed that he had not fared well in prison. His hair was well groomed and was as albino-white as it had always been, but the face underneath it looked gaunt. There were dark circles under his eyes and the slant of his cheekbones looked almost painful, especially dotted with the shining, slivered, scars. He stared at her unabashedly, his gray eyes flat and expressionless. His feet were flat on the floor and his hands rested palm-down on his thighs. Her eyes lingered on his left arm, where she knew the dark mark was hidden under the black material of his shirt. As if sensing her thoughts, the long fingers of his left hand curled into a fist. She cleared her throat softly and returned her attention to her report. After she had finished signing off in all the right places and sent the memo off to Percy's desk, she fixed her gaze on her new charge. How should she begin?

"Hello." She landed on finally.

"Granger." He responded. His voice sounded gravelly with disuse.

"How are you doing today?" She asked with civility.

"Out of prison, so better, I suppose."

A awkward silence fell between them. He certainly wasn't making this easy, was he?

"Congratulations on your freedom," She responded quickly, trying to keep her annoyance out of her voice. Knowing he got an emotional reaction would only egg him on. "I'd like to discuss the parameters for that now, if you don't mind."

He nodded.

"Firstly, any sort of criminal activity while I'm your parole officer will not be tolerated. If you so much as sneeze on the wrong side of the ministry, it's back to Azkaban with you. I'm sure you understand, of course, and that nothing is going to happen, but I've got to let you know anyway." She glanced at him, trying to gauge some sort of reaction. He kept his face perfectly calm.

"Naturally," He croaked when he realized she was waiting for some sort of a reply to continue.

His lack of reaction was more unnerving than anything else. Malfoy had never been so unresponsive, and this thought was making it difficult to concentrate on what she was supposed to be saying. "I'm going to set you up with a job and you're going to have to keep it for six months. You can't miss a day of work and you can't get fired. If you do, you'll go back to prison. I'll get weekly reports from your employer about how well you're doing, just to stay involved. Also, you'll meet with me once a week for a month. After that, you and I will evaluate how you're settling in and decide what to do from there. Does that sound alright?"

"Quite." He nodded again.

She picked up her quill. "Do you have any skills that you think would help in landing a job?"

He thought for a long time. She doubted whether Malfoy even knew what sort of skills employers were looking for. She looked down at his records to see if there was anything there that could help in figuring out what sort of job he would be good at. She was surprised to note on his transcript that his marks from Hogwarts were not bad, and he had even received three O's (in Transfiguration, DADA, and Potions), two A's (in History of Magic and Care of Magical Creatures) and E's in everything else. His sixth year marks were much lower than those of his first five years, though, and with a twinge of pity, she realized that he hadn't been able to sit for his N.E.W.T.s as he was in Azkaban awaiting his trial before they were administered.

"I'm," he paused, "A very good occlumens."

"That's not exactly a marketable skill for someone in your position," she said as delicately as she could. There were very few ways to sugar-coat the truth in this case, though. One could not write _Former death eater: Able to hide things from legilimency and veritaserum_ on a job application and expect to get hired. She would have a hard enough time getting him placed somewhere with the dark mark branded like a scarlet letter over his family.

"Then," He paused again, his pale brows drawing together with effort, "I'm good at transfiguration and," he paused again and licked his lips. She wondered if this was a nervous habit. "Fixing things," he finished lamely.

"Those are useful," she said encouragingly. "Can you think of anything else?"

"Look, Granger, I know you have all of my information in front of you, so you know what I did well at in school. I'm pretty sure you can figure out what I'm good at without my input." The words sounded like something Malfoy would say condescendingly, but the execution was all wrong. He sounded more questioning than anything else, an even if he was trying to be antagonistic (which he probably was, knowing him), he was failing so spectacularly that she actually wanted to laugh.

"Sounds good enough." She said instead, noting what he had said on a fresh piece of parchment, "I'll see what I can find for you, and get back to you as soon as I know for certain."

They sat in silence while she scribbled notes to herself and then she looked up at him again and continued speaking. "One last thing before we finish up for today: It generally helps to keep people out of trouble if they have some sort of goal. Is there anything you'd like to accomplish now that you're free?" She didn't expect a serious answer.

A cavernous silence opened. Hermione counted the seconds that ticked by on the clock. After thirty three (but she was sure that the clock was going unreasonably slow), he licked his lips again and, staring at his hands mumbled, "I'd like to do more nice things." He glanced up at her, but as soon as his gaze reached her face, a hint of a scowl passed over his sharp features, "If you keep your mouth open like that, bugs will fly into it." He nearly drawled.

She snapped her mouth shut. "Oh," she said lamely and fumbled for some sort of dignified response, "Well, what exactly did you have in mind?"

He licked his lips again. _Third time. Definitely a nervous habit, _she mentally noted, "I- I don't know, exactly. But I want to do something," he paused, obviously searching for a word that was not part of his everyday vocabulary, "Philanthropic." .

If his new found sense of decency was genuine, her job with him was going to be easier than she thought it would be. Chances were, though, that he had something planned that she wouldn't like. This _was_ Malfoy, after all. "Right. If you don't have anything else to say, you're free to go. I'll owl you about your work assignment and if all goes well, I'll see you back here next Monday at nine, alright?"

He stood to go and she stood, too. He looked nervous for a moment, and licked his lips again. "Your hair." He said choppily, "You cut it."

"Yes." She said dumbly, her hand reaching up to touch her curls on the right side of her head. They now fell only to her jaw and twisted tightly. She cut it after she and Ron split up. Ginny had called it a "symbolic gesture" but really, she only cut it because in the weeks after the breakup, things like personal hygiene became less important and short hair was easier to take care of.

"I," He took a breath, "Like it. It looks," he quieted again, for longer this time, "Better." The word sounded like it caused him actual, physical, pain to utter.

No one had said they liked her short hair. Ginny was the only one who had commented on it. Then again, had anyone mentioned it when she had done it, her reaction probably would not have been positive. Now, she simply said, "Oh," And allowed silence to sit heavily between them. After a moment, "Thanks," she added lamely.

He cleared his throat. "I'll expect that owl, then." He was clearly attempting an imperious air.

"Get some rest," she impulsively articulated as he turned toward the door, "And make sure you're eating properly." Mentally, she kicked herself for sounding so much like her mother, but was glad she at least had the self-control not to tell him to floss.

He ducked his head slightly and retreated from her office, closing the door with a soft _click_.

Hermione sat down and ran her hands over eyes. All-in-all, it had gone better than she had anticipated. Not perfect, of course, but not a complete disaster. She dropped her hands onto her desk and began on a new report.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Week With Draco Malfoy, Of Course.  
**

**Author's note:** I don't own anything, except for the storyline and how I word it. Please don't steal and don't give me credit for anything that belongs to JKR.

I'm sorry this took so long to update, my pets. This chapter is dedicated to Pau-0803, martshi3, faux-luv, flamelm, and R (who reviewed this via email and is the reason why I kept writing this at all). You five are my philosopher's stones (that is to say, life savers. Ohoho, see what I did there?). There is a little bit of Draco, Ron, and some Blaise Zabini, just for you, Pau-0803! More about them later, but I wanted to include them here since you mentioned it.

_Review and the next chapter shall be dedicated to YOU!_

_Song: "Chicago" - Sufjan Stevens_*.

*I couldn't think of anything better. I really would like your suggestions about this. Really.

* * *

_Monday_

Draco Malfoy played and replayed the brief interview in his head. He examined it forwards and backwards and looked at every line separately because he had to understand exactly what had just happened. He kept his face blank without any effort, but mentally, he was groaning.

Surprised wasn't the right word, but it was the only what came to mind. Alarmed, disconcerted, and nonplussed would have done better, but in all honesty he was not particularly interested in synonyms and so could not be bothered to think of any of these. Of course he was surprised (or some variation on the theme). Hermione Granger had been his parole officer. His _parole officer._ _His_ parole officer. Whenever he changed the mental inflection, he was surprised in a new way (and it as really starting to bother him that he couldn't find a better word for it).

Hermione Granger was clever - everyone always said so – and as far as he knew, even the lowest on the academic food chain did not aspire to parole officership. Surely the decision had been a conscious one, but for the life of him, he could not figure why.

Besides 'surprised', one other word was throwing itself against the walls of his brain, trying to claw its way out of his mouth. He bit the inside corners of his lips until he tasted the iron tang of blood against his tongue.

_Mudblood, mudblood, mudblood_.

Of course he didn't say it out loud. Of course he didn't mean it in a terrible way, but the voice in his head spoke with his mother's voice and his father's voice and his grandfather's voice and Vincent's voice and Zabini's voice and the voice of nearly everyone he had ever known and the habit of thought is astounding in its persistence. If anyone in the ministry asked, he disagreed with all ideas of blood purity, of course. He was a changed man now, or something like that.

The word made him sick in a visceral and physical way. It tasted like copper and sand. He hated it because it had taken him to Azkaban and also because if anyone ever asked, he was _not in love with Hermione Granger, thank you very much _and that denial was proof enough that he was (a close friend may ask, for instance, why he used her whole name or why he thanked the questioner). It was confusing. On his own, at the manor or while locked in Azkaban, it had been easy to separate Hermione Granger from that word. Looking at her, though, everything got confused and he wasn't sure how he felt about anything at all.

The fingers of his right hand twitched at his side, and he floo'd home.

* * *

_Tuesday_

Draco Malfoy counted the ribs visible along his sides through the bath water. He felt like he was dissolving into the large and lonely house. Counting things made him feel real and solid, even though he had spent most of the past three days sleeping so deeply he worried he might be dead. The only variation was when his mind drifted back to Granger. Thinking back on his painful behavior the previous day, he sank down in the bath, blowing exasperated bubbles out of his nose.

Of course he was sleeping, his mother had said, he was recovering. She said 'recovering' like someone had hurt him, not like he had just gotten out of prison, and so he did not take her seriously. He didn't like how she was glazing over what had happened. It was a criminal sentence, not a mugging.

An hour later he was dressed and walking down the cold marble staircase with bare feet. In the dining room, breakfast was set at his usual place even though it was time for a late lunch (Draco did not like mornings, and so avoided them whenever possible). Food seemed like a waste of time, but he remembered counting his ribs and ate anyway.

Of course, Granger had told him to eat, also, and that alone was reason enough to keep spooning eggs into his mouth. He was fairly sure that if she told him to jump, his only response would be to ask how high. On the other hand, though, something in him that was distinctly Malfoy and proud of his blood purity curled its lip at the notion. How dare a filthy mudblood, impersonating a ministry official and a witch, have the audacity to tell him what to do? To pretend to care about his well being?

He put his spoon down and the sound echoed loudly around the large and empty room. He stared at his still-full plate, but no longer had the will to eat any of it. His personality had put him off his appetite. Again. Still, this was the most he had eaten in one sitting in days and he was rather proud of that, at least.

The grandfather clock that stood like a sentry beside the fireplace chimed twice, and Draco looked up from his book to see his mother walking toward him with a ministry letter in her hand.

"It's just my work assignment," He explained, because her thin lips were saying that she was nervous.

He peeled back the ministry seal and read the parchment. H. J. Granger had written him in small, precise handwriting to say that he was to begin work as a dishwasher at the Leaky Cauldron the following day at 10:00 am, sharp, and then reminded him of their meeting the following week.

* * *

_Wednesday_

The worst thing about his new job was that he had to wake up at the ungodly hour of nine, he thought savagely as he pulled himself from the confines of his bed.

He tried to eat breakfast, but he managed only a few bites of dry brown toast and a taste of his eggs (these things, he found, were the only ones he wanted anymore and so he ate them every day, or tried to, at least) before giving up in disappointment. He did not have time for a bath.

Really, the worst thing about his new job was that he had to walk through the Leaky Cauldron, looking more out of place than a dragon in a teashop, he decided as he strode through the sad little pub and every set of eyes in the building followed him with either undisguised hostility or blank curiosity.

No, the worst thing about this entire affair was that Tom expected a Malfoy to wash dishes. In a sink. Clearly, the man did not know that no Malfoy had ever washed his own dishes before and Draco was not about to break family tradition. The fowl little man had only laughed and threatened to tell "Hermione."

Draco felt his stomach tighten with jealousy at the fact that this toothless old codger dared to us Granger's first name while he was still fighting the urge to call her something nasty.

He broke more dishes than he washed and was expecting Tom to say something fowl, but the old man had only sighed and told him to go eat something. Then he made Draco a sandwich filled with something that might have been tuna fish and lettuce (or maybe a dishrag). It tasted terrible, but he had manners (even when he wasn't completely sure what he was eating) and so he ate the whole thing. After lunch, Tom told him to, "Go home and come back tomorrow. Same time," and so he left.

Leaving, for some reason, was the worst part of the day.

* * *

_Thursday_

Thursday was better than Wednesday, except he was tired because he was up most of the night trying to perfect his dish-washing charm in the kitchen, surrounded by nervous house elves. His mother looked at his with her arms folded but at least he was doing something and so he didn't care what she was thinking.

He still could not eat breakfast.

He broke fewer dishes today, which was nice, and Tom clapped his on the back so hard that his teeth snapped together.

For lunch, he ate another mysterious sandwich, and went home. When he asked Tom if he should pay for it, the old wizard had puffed his concave chest indignantly and refused payment. "I get free 'elp," He grumbled, "Least I can do is feed ya. Yer all skin an' bones, ain't ya?"

At home, he sat in front of the fire and wondered if Tom would report to Granger what a wonderful employee he was (ignoring the broken dishes, he was probably the best employee Tom had ever had, if he said so himself). He imagined her smiling at him, knowing that he was so smart and being proud of him. Immediately, he felt ridiculous and tried to think about something less pathetic. Of course it was harmless fantasy, but he hated the way it made him happy, anyway. Loving Granger had been something he could do by himself, like a secret. Knowing, however, that he would be seeing her regularly had him thinking about her with more regularity and hope than was probably healthy.

* * *

_Friday_

Waking up was easier, but breakfast was not. He only broke three plates and a mug today and Tom let him stay for an extra hour before he made the customary tuna-esque sandwich. Draco ate the whole thing and almost enjoyed it. When he left today, he said goodbye for the weekend, he would be back on Tuesday. Tom wished him luck at his meeting with 'Hermione'. Draco kept his face carefully flat.

That night, he went out for drinks with his friend Blaise who asked about life since prison but who did not ask about prison itself. He liked Blaise a lot, and he was thankful that Blaise did not ask stupid questions about Azkaban or any others that would spoil his mood for drinking. After an hour or so, though, Potty and the Weasel walked in and ruined the mood, anyway. Of course, that was how it always went, though: He had something good going on and then Scarhead and his freckle-faced goon ruined it. He wondered why Granger wasn't with them. His confusion mounted when a blond girl who he recognized as another ex-Gryffindor bounded up to the Ginger and laid a wet and repulsive kiss on his ugly mug.

This was, of course, not how it was supposed to go. Weasel-face and Granger were supposed to be sickeningly in love at this point (although he had been trying all week not to think about that). Granger was certainly not blond and definitely did not have such an annoying (and far-carrying) voice. He hoped she had never called Weaselbee "Won-Won."

Blaise turned in his seat to see what Draco was staring at, and his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Least his new bint's a pureblood." The dark-skinned wizard commented dryly.

Draco did not respond right away. He took a sip of his drink and asked about Blaise's mother – which was not a nice thing to do. Blaise hated his mother, but then again, Draco had a vindictive streak and did not like it when anyone else commented on Granger's blood. She was _his_ mudblood to disdain. Always had been.

* * *

_Saturday_

Draco dragged himself from the delicious arms of sleep at seven thirty and went back to sleep as soon as he remembered that he did not have to work today. It was a wonderful feeling.

Some hours later, he was awake and reading by the fire (he was always cold nowadays, despite the summer heat), although his mind kept returning to Weasel and his new strumpet. More importantly, he kept wondering how Granger was dealing with it. He hoped she had been the one to break things off, but somehow, he doubted it. He thought of her sobbing like she had on the night of the Yule Ball and he wondered if anyone had been there to say something nice (and probably offer whatever comfort was necessary). If that tall buffoon had made Granger cry, Draco would make him pay tenfold. He had dark magic at his disposal, after all.

Of course, thoughts like that were no way to stay out of prison. Draco had no intentions of going back to Azkaban and his memories of the wizarding prison banished all thoughts of pointless chivalry from his head. Instead, he tried to focus on the other assignment Granger had given him: To come up with a goal to keep him as far from jail as possible.

At the time, he had said he wanted to, "Do more nice things," and that had sounded good at the time, but other than that, he had no idea what he would do. Honestly, he had only felt that "nice things" were important because Granger was looking at him with her big, hopeful, eyes. Now that he was alone in his manor, however, "nice things" seemed like a wasted gesture. Still, he had said he would do something and so now he had to. But what?

_Win Granger _was his first thought, but that was stupid because it was neither nice nor possible.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to get in her good graces, since he would pander to her like any common idiot when she was around, anyway, just to stay out of prison. But how would he do that?

Of course, the logical answer was to take a philanthropic interest in something she liked. That would show her that he was a) interested in the same things she was, b) show her that he was rich (because women could not resist wealth, of course), and c) it would make her happy. The only question was, what did she like?

_She likes poor and stupid people_. But he wasn't sure that would still be the case, if the Ginger Moron had broken her heart and besides, there was absolutely no way he would associate willingly with any of the blood-traitors. No, helping poor people (ie, The Weasley Population) was completely out of the question.

What else did she like?

_Books_. He could open a library. He looked down at the book in his hand, which was a murder mystery and very good, but not exactly classic literature. He was sure that she could recommend a few good books for a library, but it sounded like so much work. Well, it was one idea, at least.

What else?

_House elves._ Of course! She had started that pointless crusade for house elves while they were in school (VOMIT, was it called?), and he was sure that Bleeding Heart Granger still had a soft spot for the ugly little creatures. A plan was forming in his mind. He quite liked having an idea of what he was going to do; it made him feel competent.

He smiled for the first time in six days.

* * *

_Sunday_

He spent the entire day going over his plan and rehearsing what he was going to say to Granger. There was no way he would be caught flat-footed like last time!

That evening, Draco laid out his clothes for the next day. This wasn't something that he normally did, but he felt that in order to champion his own case he had to look his best. Naturally, everything was black.

He fell asleep thinking about the future. Of course, nothing was certain and he didn't exactly have high hopes, but he had a plan, and that was enough for now.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: **I own nothing of Harry Potter. All I've got are my ideas.

Look, kids, I'm so sorry it took me (MORE THAN) a month to update this story. Things are going to pick up pace over the next couple of chapters, but I can't promise immediate updates due to s'cool (school) and life (haha, like I have one of those). I'll do what I can when I can. As always, I ADORE reviews and dedicate this to the reviewers. Still want song recommendations.

_Song: Tiësto feat. Tegan & Sara - Feel It In My Bones*_

This chapter is, of course, dedicated to (in reverse order of review posting):  
xAngeloxPiccolax: Adorable Angel, thank you for reading more than one of my pieces. I'm glad that I am (fairly) consistently pleasing.  
ginnyali: Thank you for your kind words!  
jessirose85: I hope this chapter helps to clear up your Harry query. I think he just doesn't like being stuck in the middle.  
twistedartist: Oh, goodness. You can always say that. Simple praise is always appreciated (because I'm incurably vain).  
flamelm: Just for the record, you are my most consistent reviewer, which basically means that I love you bushels and I keep checking your page to see if you've written any stories that I can read (is that strange and stalker-ish? Perhaps. Do I particularly care? Nah). Thank you so very much! Your continued support is greatly (greatly, greatly) appreciated.  
Pau-0803: Blah. I hate washing dishes, too. Thank you for your continued support, also. I have extra-super adoration for people who stick with stories.  
martshi3: My pet, I will continue to give you shout-outs for as long as you continue to support my (painfully slow) work.  
Thwarted Moony: My amazing Ana: Well, thank you for leaving a review even if you don't like to give them. It was greatly appreciated. Hope to have you reading me again (is that correct?)!

*Don't like my song choices? No problem! Recommend better ones in the REVIEWS section below!

* * *

**A Chronological Breakdown of Monday**

_5:52 AM_

Hermione awoke on Monday morning to a furry face knocking against her cheek and a rumbling purr. She sighed and rolled out of bed, dancing her feet against the cold floor. She glanced out the window, and her shoulders slumped slightly. It was barely light outside, and although she still had quite some time before she needed to be awake, she had never been able to go to sleep if it was light outside.

Crookshanks, either unaware or uncaring of the discomfort he had caused his mistress, curled himself around her ankles, and mewled for breakfast.

She glared down at the furry little perpetrator- more for the act of it than out of any real anger. "I suppose this means I'm supposed to feed you now, doesn't it?" She asked, her voice horse with sleep. The cat meowed loudly, raising his front paws off the ground. Well, he didn't mind her voice, at least.

She straightened her back – there was nothing like good posture to ward off self-pity – and walked gingerly across the wooden floor to her closet, in search of her bathrobe and slippers. If she couldn't go back to sleep, there was no reason not to begin her day.

* * *

_6:48 AM_

She was reading an old book, sunk deep in her ancient couch, with her elderly cat asleep on her lap, when she heard the tap of claws against her kitchen window. She rose to let the owl in, and dislodged her ginger feline in the process. In one last protest as he fell to the floor, he dug his nails into her skirt, piercing the skin underneath. "Ow, Crookshanks!" She scolded, but he only wound around her feet again. She looked at him, her dark brow furrowed. He had been awfully affectionate lately and she was worried that he might be sick.

Following his bottle brush tail around the kitchen corner, she found herself staring at the heart-shaped face of Harry's barn owl, Barnabas.

"Hello, Barny," She cooed as the owl landed on the back of one of her chairs, keeping a safe distance from Crookshanks, who was staring up at him with hungry-eyed interest. Hermione took the rolled parchment from his outstretched talon.

_Hermione,_

_ We need to talk. Can I drop in round 8?_

_Harry_

Trying very hard not to feel too put out by this succinct message after more than a week of silence between them, she wrote a brief reply (still a good three lines longer than his missive had been) and sent Barny away after a bit of toast.

She watched as he grew smaller and smaller into the the distance across the thatched and crooked rooftops of Diagon Alley. She wondered where he was going. Suddenly, the apartment around her felt very empty and she, very much alone.

As if in response to her unmentioned wave of melancholy, Crookshanks leaped onto the table beside her and batted her hand with a concerned paw. She smiled and bent down until her eyes were on level with his squashed mug, taking his small face in her hands. His eyes closed and he purred. "How could I ever feel alone with such a darling gentleman here to take care of me?"

* * *

_7:29 AM_

Hermione walked into her office and sat down behind the desk in quite a good mood. She had gotten up early enough (thank you, Crookshanks) to really look good today, and so she was wearing a beautifully tailored set of robes and was all-in-all pleased with how she had managed to make her hair lay smoothly against her head. She had even dared to throw a little lipstick on, making herself feel absolutely lovely.

After her brief pause for pleased self-examination, she cleared her throat and said aloud, "Now, then. On to the paperwork!" She pulled Draco's file onto her desk and tried not to notice that when one had their own office, there was no one to answer when one spoke into the silence on a Monday morning.

* * *

_8:03 AM_

She had put her paperwork back into a file, and her annoyance was mounting with every tick of the clock. Harry had asked for her time the first thing on a Monday morning even though he knew she was invariably busy. This would have been forgivable had he bothered showing up on time.

* * *

_8:17 AM_

"Sorry," said Harry breathlessly as he whirled into the office, throwing his cloak across the back of his chair and slumping down in front of her, a guilty smile plastered across his face, "Got caught up with Shacklebolt out in the hall."

She smiled thinly at him, her hands clasped before her on the desk.

"Oh, don't be upset! You know how Kingsley likes to talk!"

"I'm not upset," she lied, and focused on straightening her jar of quills.

"Yes you are," he insisted, "Whenever you're mad, you get this thin-lipped look that makes you look like McGonagall."

Her head shot up and her eyes flashed with indignation, "I most certainly-" but he was smiling. A joke. There was really no reason to be angry. Harry was habitually late; it wasn't a personal affront. "Good morning, Harry," Sshe said simply.

"Morning, Hermione."

* * *

_8:19 AM_

It had taken Harry two minutes to finally get around to mentioning the reason for this visit.

"I haven't said that I wasn't going yet," she replied, careful to keep her voice controlled.

"Well, yeah, but you haven't said you are, either." A valid point, she had to admit, especially since she was generally prompt in her replies.

"I just don't know if I'm going to be free that weekend or-"

"Oh come off it, Hermione," cut in Harry. She hated it when people cut her off mid-sentence. "We both know why you don't want to go. But it's been a while and you two are still _friends_. Can't you just forgive him already?"

She silently counted to ten before responding. "Harry, I there is nothing to forgive anymore. _He_ is the one who hasn't spoken to _me_, you realize, and then I get this invitation out of the blue, and what am I-"

"Hermione, I'm pretty sure that you don't want to go because, well, you know," his voice trailed off and he looked nervously around, as though he was suddenly in uncharted territory. She hadn't noticed this. She was too preoccupied with the fact that he had cut her off mid-sentence for a second time.

She glowered at him, "No, Harry Potter, I _don't _know. Why don't you _tell _me?"

He shifted in his chair, visibly uncomfortable, "Well, it's just that Ron's, well, he's getting married, you know, and you're..."

"I'm what?" She asked sharply. His eyes flicked to her wand laying across her desk and then to the door.

"Well, you're not seeing anyone, you know, romantically, are you?"

For a moment, she didn't know how to respond, and gaped at him as if she had been slapped. "Are you suggesting that I'm actually _jealous_ of him marrying that, that," she finally spluttered. She shook her head, dislodging her carefully arranged hair as she searched her extensive vocabulary for an adjective that could accurately describe Ron's fiancée, "Ninny?" She settled on finally, trying to put all the disdain she felt for Lavender into her voice.

Harry seemed to gain confidence from this, "Yeah," he said, "I think you are."

"Harry James Potter," she said, perhaps a bit too loudly, "That is perhaps the most ridiculous thing you've ever said to me. I-"

"But you've been so-"

"_Would you stop interrupting me every single time I talk?"_ She snapped.

The room was silent for a moment. Finally, Harry said, "Sorry, Hermione, what were you saying?"

She was instantly sorry for her outburst. Harry didn't deserve it. "Oh, it's not important, I think. The fact remains, though, that I haven't made up my mind about whether or not I'm going to the wedding and you are not going to decide for me."

He opened his mouth as if to argue, but thought better, and shut it again.

"How's Ginny, then?" She prompted.

"Oh, swell," He said, obviously grateful for this more neutral topic, "Really getting on well with Gwenog Jones. She's coaching now, you know."

"Yes, I know. Ginny told me last week."

"You still doing your Monday Night Drinks thing, then?" He asked eagerly.

"Yes," She replied pointedly, not revealing any more than that. She and Harry's girlfriend had been getting drinks together every Monday night for almost a year, and while neither girl ever revealed anything they talked about on these days, Harry had been fishing for hints every chance he got. Hermione then turned the talk toward his work, and they discussed Harry's hunt for Death Eaters in Romania until Hermione looked at the clock.

"Harry, as great as it was to see you, I really do have to work to do, and so do you."

He rose reluctantly and they made their goodbyes. As he stood in the doorway, though, he turned and said, "Just promise you'll think really hard about going to Ron's wedding."

She opened her mouth to tell him that she would think about it, but didn't want to make any promises, but he cut her off before she even got the first word out. "There. Did you see that?"

"What?"

"Your face." She looked dubiously up at him. He tried again, "No, I mean, when I said Ron's – there it goes again!"

"What?" She repeated, growing more irritated by the second.

"Whenever I say his name, you flinch."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. You're doing it and you don't even know it," he insisted.

"Whatever you say, Harry," She said, trying to push him out the door, but he was bigger than she was and so pushing was not as easy as she hoped.

Instead he turned and took her hands in his, catching her gaze in his green eyes. "You can't stay like this forever, Hermione. Ron's moved on, and you should, too." He said meaningfully.

She broke the staring first. "I've got work to do," She said quietly, and closed the door before he could say anything else.

* * *

_8:59 AM_

"Come in," she called.

Draco Malfoy entered as silently as a shadow. Her immediate thought was that, if someone had taken a black-and-white photograph of him, there would be no more or less color than she was seeing now. He was all pale skin and white hair, dressed in mortician black. It suited him, in some strange way. She was pleased to note that the shadows under his eyes were less noticeable and his cheeks appeared less gaunt. Life was returning what Azkaban had robbed him of, it seemed.

He sat in the chair Harry had so recently vacated, and folded his hands elegantly in his lap.

"Good morning," he said, returning her gaze steadily. His voice was more confident than it had been the previous week, but still lacked something it had boasted in their Hogwarts days. Not, of course, that she was bemoaning the fact that propriety was currently trumping racist slurs and snide remarks. It was just interesting, was all.

"Morning," she replied, smiling faintly at him. He did not return the gesture, and so hers disappeared quickly. Civility was still apparently beyond him. Well, she was thankful for neutrality, at least. She paused for a beat to collect her thoughts before continuing. "Tom sent in his first report of your performance, but before we go over that, why don't you tell me what you thought of it there." She suggested.

He did not reply immediately, instead he sized her up with a gaze, as if wondering how much he could tell her. Finally, he said, "I found it to be a most educational experience."

"Well, that's good," she said absently. It was a politic answer, if nothing else. She looked down at the paper on her desk before her. "Would you like to know what Tom said about you?"

Again, he did not answer right away. She noted that his silence was not as anxious as it had been the previous week, but it stretched on a bit too long again. He licked his lips before answering. "Yes," he finally said. _Succinct_. She mentally noted, not entirely sure if this annoyed her or not.

Waving away any potential vexation, she read off the paper, "Draco seems to try his best, but breaks a lot of dishes. A good boy and I think he'll be very useful, once he gets the hang of what he's doing."

A look of obvious insult showed on his face, "'Be very useful'?" He echoed contemptuously, and his face curled into a sneer she recognized immediately, "I could buy that place four times over and still not worry about money. If that old man doesn't realize what a useful addition I make to his sorry staff, then he's even more senile that I first thought."

At least she now knew that the old Malfoy was still in there. This fact, however, did nothing to improve her mood. She reminded herself that no matter how vile his personality, it was her job to teach him how to be a productive member of society, and punching him in the face was sure not to do any good. Instead, she forced herself to smile and said as sweetly as she could, "It sounds to me, Draco," she had never used his first name to his face at it felt strange on her tongue; too personal. She resolved to just call him Mr. Malfoy from then on. "Like Tom's happy to have you working for him. He had no large complaints about your performance, which is generally a good thing after only a few days of work."

His sneer didn't change, but the air between them changed very subtly. "Of course," he said, and they lapsed into silence again.

Finally, she asked, "Besides your new job, how has your first full week of freedom been?"

He blinked, obviously not expecting this question. His tongue flicked out and wet his lips before he answered, "Uneventful." Obviously, he didn't want to reveal any more than this. Well, that was alright. They had never been even remotely friendly.

She tried a different tactic. "Have you given any thought to your long-term goal?"

"Yes," He said immediately this time, "I mentioned last week that I would like to endeavor to be more philanthropic."

She wasn't exactly sure how to respond to this, but luckily, she didn't have to. He continued, unbidden.

"At first, I was at a loss as to how to proceed with this plan; there are infinite ways for one of my status to contribute to wizarding society." She felt a faint pang of annoyance at this comment, but he spoke again, oblivious to her discontent. "And then it came to me: The best way to help society as a whole is to better the lives of creatures less fortunate than I am."

'Creatures'? Was he serious?

"So, I decided that I will raise money and awareness for the house-elf cause."

Hermione almost fell out of her chair. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not this. He stared down his nose at her in obvious distaste. After a few very long and unpleasant seconds, she realized that it was her turn to talk.

"Well." She started. She paused for a moment before saying, "I thought- well – this is unexpected. Um, why house elves, if you don't mind me asking?"

He appeared to be expecting this, and indeed, a smirk began to curl up the side of his mouth. "Why, because they greatly affect the Malfoy estate, of course. In our employ, there are more than ten working elves. Should laws be changed for them, as I think they shall be in the future, it would be in my family's best interest to back such a venture. Furthermore, it would be charitable, and I am sure that you, Granger, would be the first to admit that my family's name is not the mark of royalty that it once was in wizarding society."

Before she could collect herself enough to respond, he pressed on with, "I'm going to orchestrate a charity dinner."

This was not a suggestion. It was a statement in fact. A part of Hermione wanted to knock him down a few pegs simply for coming into her office and making preposterous suggestions and then just expecting that it was so easy to take the upper hand. Still, the larger, more logical, part of her brain was whispering that this may be a blessing in disguise. Sure, holes would crop up in what was undoubtedly a poorly-thought-out plan, but in the mean time, it would keep Malfoy out of trouble and would actually bring some publicity to the elfish cause. How could she argue with that?

"Alright," She said slowly, "But it's almost nine thirty and-"

"My appointment is nearly over." He cut her off. Testily, she wondered why nobody was letting her finish her own sentences today.

"Yes." She curtly replied, "But I'll see you next Monday, shall I?"

"Of course."

"Does the nine o-clock slot work for you?" She asked politely, making a note on her calendar when he nodded. "Right. In the interim, please do keep thinking about this fund-raiser idea, and keep up the good work at the Leaky Cauldron."

* * *

_5:56 PM_

Exhausted, Hermione dragged her heavy feet to the Ministry's flew network. Honestly, all she wanted to do was go home and go to bed.

At least things had gone well with Malfoy this morning. Truth be told, he was showing much more promise than any of her other ex-cons had. He was even (sort of) working towards his long term goals. Well, it wasn't much and he was probably going to mess it up at some point very soon, but at least he was (apparently) trying. That was something.

* * *

_6:13 PM_

Hermione had just finished feeding Crookshanks when Ginny's Screech Owl tapped a claw gently against her window. Once she unhooked the latch, Bogey (the owl) fluttered onto her head and proceeded to pick at its feathers while Hermione read the parchment, only able to decipher Ginny's scrawl with years of practice.

After penning a hasty response, she sent Bogey on his way and set about trying to decide what to eat. The problem wasn't that she didn't have food, it was simply that she didn't _feel_ like eating. It seemed like an awful lot of work.

Eventually, she made herself a bowl of oatmeal and took it with her into the living room to read the evening paper.

* * *

_8:48 PM_

Hermione walked into the Three Broomsticks. It was fairly crowded, as far as Monday nights went; still no more than twenty people in all. Her eyes searched for her companion, and she finally spied fiery red hair.

Ginny Weasely waved her to the little table in the corner where she was seated with two mugs. Hermione slid into the chair across from her smiling friend, returning the look tiredly.

Ginny looked slightly concerned, "Harry said you looked worn out."

"So you've talked to him about his visit?" She replied, sounding more miffed than she'd intended.

"Well, he only mentioned it in passing over dinner." Ginny took a sip of her firewhiskey unconcernedly.

Hermione sighed resignedly. "No, I'm fine. Anyway, how are things between you and Harry?"

Ginny's brows, instead of relaxing the way Hermine had anticipated, only drew further together. "Well, see, not so great."

Hermione almost spat her drink out. "What?"

"Well," Ginny bit her lower lip, "See the thing is, I feel like I never get to see him anymore."

"That's not what you said last week."

"A lot can change in a week," replied Ginny pertly and took another sip. "It's just," she looked sideways and didn't continue.

After what seemed like a polite interval, "Well?" Demanded Miss Granger of Miss Weasely.

"He's always at work! It's like he's avoiding me or he doesn't want to come home! Is there something wrong with me?" Demanded Ginny, her wide brown eyes honestly inquiring, her hands moving with such ferocity that Hermione worried she would spill her drink.

As a natural and opposite reaction to Ginny's volatile behavior, Hermione became completely analytical. "Of course he wants to be home. He's just been busy lately. And you can't make such snap decisions based off of only a few days' worth of distance. Give it another week at least, Ginny."

Ginny sighed into her drink. "You're probably right." Pause. "No, of course you're right. I'm just being silly. It's just, well, you know, with the wedding, I'm wondering if he'll ever propose. I mean, we've been together more than twice as long as my brother and Lavender. I just don't want to be thirty and still hoping to get married." She shook herself as though ridding her body of a chill and snapped her head up to Hermione, smiling again. "Anyway, enough about that whiny stuff. How are you doing? How was your weekend?"

Hermione smiled at the younger girl. Ginny was only a year out of school and the newest member on the Hollyhead Harpies' Quiddich team. The stress was seeming to be getting to her a bit. Poor Ginny. Hermione smiled and said, "Quiet. I sat home and read for most of it. What did you do? Did you spend the entire time getting ready for your brother's wedding?"

"Oh, Lavender's taking care of the entire thing, really. Ron's not doing much of anything himself, which suits him just fine." Ginny rolled her eyes.

This time, when the name was mentioned, Hermione felt herself wince. Perhaps there was some truth to what Harry had said. If this was true, it was a reality that disturbed her and left her feeling unbearably lonely. Instead of telling this to Ginny, however, she smiled and listened while her friend proceeded to complain about the puffy purple bridesmaid dress that she was going to be expected to wear, willing her mind to remain on the conversation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Harry Potter, Dramione would be canon. It's not, so, clearly, I own nothing.

Let's not talk about how long it's taken me to update. BUT I AM UPDATING SO CLEARLY THAT MUST BE WORTH SOMETHING, RIGHT GUYS?

_Song: !AS SUGGESTED BY THE PERFECT SAYOMITENMA! Aly & AJ - Silence_

_I need a minute just to get to you  
I feel like I might be getting through  
Come over and say nothing  
Silence is everything _

This chapter is dedicated to everyone who reviewed:  
flamelm, my pet, you are most definitely my favorite for your continued readership.  
Pau-0803, thank you for your kind words and continued reading. You are definitely right about Harry & Ginny. The dear boy simply doesn't know how to be in a serious relationship.  
SayomiTenma, your advice is sound and this chapter is mostly dedicated to your brilliant song suggestions and support.  
Blood-blossom16, she didn't set out to be a parole officer. Thanks for reading, but if you really can't see it, perhaps you should read something that makes more sense to you. This makes sense in my head, so I make no apologies.  
MilkMustache, er, yes, well, I don't appear to update anything quickly. Thank you for the kind review, though!

And now without further ado...

* * *

**The Letter From No One**

Draco wanted to get started on his Fundraiser idea as soon as he possibly could, so he sent a house elf to find his mother as soon as he stepped out of the Manor's main transportation fireplace. Fifteen minutes later, she was seated on a black leather couch, her hands folded in her lap and her black satin robes matched perfectly the heavy diamond earrings she was wearing.

She wasn't wearing any makeup and her feet were hastily shoved into red velvet slippers, which told Draco that she had not been awake for very long. She had probably been worried when the house elf said Draco wanted to see her; had probably grabbed the first set of robes she had touched and raced down the long hall, afraid that something had gone wrong.

Draco regretted making his mother worry, but was too excited to be terribly remorseful. Instead of apologizing or offering his mother tea, he said, "I'd like to hold a charity dinner."

Narcissa nodded once. Draco marveled at how she managed to look unsurprised, even though she must be taken aback by his sudden interest in social niceties. "To which charity will we be donating?" was all she said.

Draco licked his lips before answering. "House elf rights and welfare."

There was a long pause in which Draco listened to the grandfather clock on the opposite wall tick very slowly. He was going to have to get rid of it, or have it moved to a different room, at least. Maybe the clock should moved to his father's old study, now abandoned in the North Wing. It's not as though anyone would be going there anytime soon. It was more mausoleum than manner, these days.

"Why?" she asked, her voice like the snap of ice on the surface of a frozen-over lake.

Draco then proceeded to outline for his mother the same intricately constructed half-truth he had fed Granger earlier. It was a "half-truth" and not an outright lie because it was truly going to be important for the Malfoys to seem to be abreast of political change, should their name survive the Death Eater debacle. He had spent the last hours of Sunday researching what had been done for house elves in the year he had been away, trying to find any information that he could use to establish some sort of rapport with Granger, and as it turned out, not a thing had been passed into actual law to help the elves she had championed in Hogwarts. Still, he would have bet galleons that she still cared, and it had been too late at night to think up anything else, so he decided to stick with the plan in good faith that _something_ would get passed _eventually_ and that Granger would be too desperate for help to consider that he might have ulterior motives. He figured that the truth was too outrageous for his mother to even consider.

"That makes sense," Narcissa said politely, but she turned her head slightly to one side, which meant that she thought it was stupid.

Draco wanted to argue his point further, to make it known that it was a better idea than she was giving it credit for, but he was worried that if he did that, then she would realize that he didn't think it was exactly foolproof, either. What had seemed brilliant over brandy the night before was looking a lot flimsier in the daylight. "Will you help me host the dinner, mother?"

He used the word 'mother' because Narcissa never refused anything when he asked like that.

"When would you like it to be?" The way her eyes traveled around the study meant that she was trying to imagine what sort of decorations would look best for the party.

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"How soon is reasonable?"

Narcissa looked long and hard at him now, lingering on the cuts across his face, the razor-line of his cheekbones. "Three weeks," she said when she finished appraising his condition. This meant that she thought it would take Draco three weeks to be up to hosting an event, since she had thrown together large dances and dinners on a week's notice before. He wanted to be offended by this lack of confidence, but at the moment, but was honestly surprised. He thought it would take longer. Besides, he was getting tired again and his excitement was already waning. Since Azkaban, he had found it difficult to hold onto anything for very long.

"Alright," he said, "how about we discuss the details over lunch today?" Maybe a nap before then would make him feel better.

Narcissa unclasped and clasped her hands, lacing her long and slender fingers. Draco waited for her to say what was on her mind. Eventually, she said, "We also need to discuss what happened before."

Draco knew what "before" meant. Suddenly, he wished he had not waited for her to speak and had gone directly for his nap. "I don't think there's anything to discuss."

Her posture was perfect and her face betrayed nothing, but her hands were alive in her lap. "There is, Draco, there are details that-"

"There are details that were worked out even before the trial. It's over, mother. I went to Azkaban and I served my sentence and there's nothing left to discuss now. It's done." He wished she would just let the subject drop permanently. There were certain things he did not ever want to remember.

When she opened her mouth to say something else, he spoke first, "_Please_, mother. If you want to discuss that, fine. But not now."

"If not now, when, Draco?" Her voice was quiet. The way her lips had thinned and her eyes focused on a spot between his feet, he knew that this was hard for her. She did not want to talk about it, either.

He stood up, stretching his arms above his head, "Later." He did not wait to be dismissed to leave, not because he wanted to be rude, but because he was so out of practice when it came to social niceties, it didn't occur to him to wait to be dismissed.

* * *

He and his mother took their lunch of cold cucumber sandwiches in the second parlor at one that afternoon. They sat across from each other on one end of the long table, talking quietly over a tall pitcher of lemonade and an impressive stack of cucumber sandwiches.

"It will have to be here at the manor, of course," Narcissa said, holding her sandwich between her fingers.

"Naturally," Draco responded, staring at the barely-touched food on his plate, willing some sort of an appetite to return. How could he host a charity dinner that would impress Granger if he couldn't even down a single sandwich himself?

"Who do you think should be invited?"

"I figured we'd sell tickets for, say, fifty Galleons a head?"

Narcissa's mouth turned into a dainty scowl, "Is that all you think we could get for tickets?"

"We are not exactly society's favorite family at the moment." How hard could it be to eat a stupid little sandwich? It was tiny. He picked it up again.

"That depends on who you ask," Narcissa replied smugly.

"The sort of person who would be impressed by my ability to resist the effects of veritaserum would probably not be interested in attending a charity event for house elves." He put the sandwich back on his plate, opting instead for a sip of lemonade.

"That's true enough, but I'm sure that several people would be more than willing to pay a few galleons to attend your welcome home banquet. Enough to keep the Ministry happy and maybe even a bit for us on the side." The Malfoys did not get to be so wealthy by reporting every knut to the ministry, after all.

Draco shook his head. "I would rather keep ministry events and our personal lives separate for now." The last thing he wanted was for the Ministry of Magic to begin looking too closely at the company he kept. Not, of course, that the company he kept was particularly fowl, but there was something in the way his mother spoke that worried him. "We can start having personal events after I stop having to report to a parole officer every week."

"When is that, exactly?" Narcissa's tone was too light to be genuine. Draco wondered what she really wanted to ask.

"January."

"Ah." His mother took another bite of her sandwich, "And who is this parole officer? Anyone I know?"

_You mean anyone you could buy_. Hermione's face loomed into his mind's eye, looking at him over a stack of papers, lipstick rubbing off at the corners of her mouth and her hair slicked back from her face. He shook his head, "No one you've met." It was a lie he didn't have to tell. Probably shouldn't have told, if he was completely honest, since the chances were very good that his mother would meet Parole Officer Granger eventually. There was something about Granger, though, that made him want to keep her a secret. Like he was protecting her somehow.

His mother didn't know any of the things that ran through his head, though, and so sipped her lemonade quietly. The talk turned to people who _should_ be invited to the charity event. They mutually decided that Blaise should be invited, of course, and the Parkinsons. "Since no party is complete without Lilly Parkinsons' conversation," as Narcissa said.

* * *

Eventually, Draco managed to swallow a few bites of his sandwich and then he accompanied his mother for a stroll across the grounds. As he watched the small flock of white peahens strut across the grass and disappear behind an azalea bush, his mother watched his face.

"You can have those scars removed, you know." Her tone was conversational, which meant that she was serious. "It's not a hard procedure, I've heard."

Their arms were linked which meant that he couldn't escape, so he kept his eyes trained on the place where the peahens had vanished and said, "Maybe. Didn't there used to be a peacock?"

Narcissa ignored his attempt at changing the topic. "Don't you want them removed?"

The truth was that he didn't know if he did or he didn't. He had found it hard to think about anything from before his stay in prison. It was as if there was a fog that lay thick in his brain, keeping him from thinking too clearly about anything serious. The scars (at least the ones his mother was talking about) had come to him before prison and were, in a round about sort of fashion, the entire reason he had gone to prison in the first place. Getting rid of them would almost seem like trying to erase the two years of his life, and while they had been incredibly unpleasant and not something he would ever want to repeat, he wasn't sure if he wanted it to be pushed under the rug, either. It was too hard to think about right now. His mind kept sliding across the topic as though it were ice.

"I'm sure there was a peacock. What happened to him?"

* * *

It is worth noting that a person can get used to anything; even waking up at eight in the morning every day of the week. By Thursday, Draco had determined that, while mornings were still painful and the worst part of the day, survivable. Even better than this realization was the fact that he was no longer breaking dishes during his hours of slavery in the kitchen of the Leaky Cauldron.

"Doin' alright there?" Asked Tom, who was cleaning glasses behind the bar as Draco strolled in.

Several of the regulars, sloppy looking wizards who were nursing half-full flaggons at the bar by nine in the god damn morning, nodded in greeting to Draco. He waved at them and said good morning to Tom.

Without even being told to do so, Draco pulled an old and questionably stained apron over his robes and set about washing dishes.

"You're not very good at washing, are you?" Asked Tom some time later, holding a freshly cleaned dish in his hand and grinning toothlessly at Draco.

Draco brought himself up to his full (and marginally impressive) height. "What on earth gives you that idea?" He asked.

Tom passed the dish to Draco. Draco stared at it, unable to find a problem. It was completely whole and solid.

"There's still food stuck to it," Prompted Tom gently when it became apparent that Draco was not going to figure anything out on his own.

"So what? You're just going to put more food on top of it. No one will notice." This was a stupid conversation and Draco didn't know why he was still having it at all.

Tom shook his head, "It's the principle of the thing. People like eating off of clean plates."

"People like a lot of things," returned Draco, "but I have a lot of dishes to wash. You can't expect me to look for every speck of food on every one."

Tom shook his head and asked Draco just to be more careful in the future. Draco, figuring that this was not a fight he really wanted to have with a man who was on a first name basis with his parole officer, didn't push the issue, but tried to be better about cleaning every stupid speck of dried food off of every stupid plate.

* * *

When he returned home on Thursday evening, he was surprised to see a folded note waiting for him on his desk. It was, of course, going to be from his mother, wanting him to run some errand but too busy doing whatever it was she did to tell him personally. Wearily, he flopped down in the chair behind his desk, and flicked open the envelope.

What little color his face normally had, it lost. His fingers shook as he reread the short message. It was written in a sharp, slanted hand that he knew very well but never thought he'd see again.

"Welcome home," it said very simply, in a very ordinary black ink, but it scared him.

The dead weren't supposed to write you letters.

He stood up so abruptly that his chair tipped backwards and almost fell over. He bunched the note in his hand, and stumbled to the window, where he threw back the latch and pushed his head out into the night, searching the sky for an owl. For some sign that the letter had come from somewhere else. That he wasn't crazy. That the dead did not write letters to the newly returned from prison. Anything.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the words.

Hi guys! If you review, I will update, but if people don't review, I don't see any point in continuing to update. Why? Because I am incredibly vain and very forgetful and I legit forgot about this story for a long time. Like, I had to re-read it to update it, but I am updating!

Song: "The Atheist Christmas Carol" by Vienna Teng

* * *

**Monday**

Hermione was shouting "Lumos!" and sitting straight-backed in her bed before she even realized that she was awake. Crookshanks looked blearily at her from Ron's side of the bed, giving her one yellow eyed angry glance before shuffling his head back into the mass of his tail. Hermione was gasping in air like it was something she had not tasted in too long, pushing her hair back from her face, feeling it stick to the sweat against her forehead in protest.

It had been a nightmare, a bad one, but she couldn't remember it at all. Hermione Granger, it should be noted, was not used to having dreams of any sort. She reasoned that this was simply a reaction to the increased stressors that were piling on at work, that was all. But all of the logic in the world would not still her racing heart. It had been so _real_ and terrible, whatever it had been, and her eyes were still dissecting the shadows in the corners of the room.

She glanced over at her bedside clock. It was three-fifteen exactly. She sighed and flopped back against the pillows, the wand on her nightstand still bathing the room in bright light. She wasn't tired now, but she knew she should be. She tried laying still for a while, but even after she schooled her breath into long, even inhales and exhales, and even after she recounted all of the goblin rebellions between 1404 and 1822 she was not tired. In fact, if anything, she was more awake now, and it was 3:43, which could almost be seen as a reasonable time to start her day.

She trod barefoot down the hall and took up her normal spot on the couch, a thick tome called _The Journey to Independence: A History of American Wizarding_ open on her lap, trailing her quill bookmark distractedly across her face as her eyes moved across the pages. Crookshanks joined her on the couch an hour later, but she did not look up.

~.~

Despite her early morning, she was still later to the ministry than she would have liked. By the time she floo'd in, the giant clock in the atrium read just after six, which gave her just under three hours until her first meeting. Her feet echoed in the empty chamber as she hurried toward the elevators, but she could already imagine the bustle that would fill it in a few short hours. And by that time, she really ought to have a handle on this.

~.~

She had gotten an owl on Friday afternoon that Dung had been caught shoplifting again and she had spent all weekend talking to ministry officials and shopkeepers and trying to keep him out of prison, which no one, least of all Mundungus, seemed to care about. When she had met with him on Saturday, he had only stared at her with dull eyes and let her shout at him about recidivism and other big words he probably couldn't spell if his life depended on it. She was fairly confident that he had not heard a word that she had been saying. She was at her desk and working before six thirty.

She was so engrossed in writing a plea to the Wizengamot to let Dung off with a warning that she didn't hear the knock at her door and Harry had to call her name twice before she looked up.

"Oh, hello," she said, setting down her quill even though she did not want to stop working. She tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

"Ron says that Lavender said that you haven't responded yet," Harry said, cutting straight to the point. She caught herself mid-wince at the name and tried to school her features back into calmness before Harry caught on. If he noticed, he didn't say.

Hermione examined the ink that was stained into her cuticles. "No, I haven't. I've had a very busy weekend, Harry, and-"

"How long does it take to answer a wedding invite, Hermione? For one of your best friends?" Harry cut in, and Hermione was too tired and worried about Mundungus to take much notice. She'd just thought of something she should add to her report and wanted to add it before she forgot the wording that she thought would work best.

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, and then caught herself at the terseness she heard in her own voice and rubbed her hands across her eyes. "Sorry, Harry. This Dung thing has me all out of sorts."

Harry only nodded in what she assumed was a sympathetic way. "So I'll just respond for you, shall I? Are you bringing a plus-one or no?"

Well, not too sympathetic, then. Hermione scrambled in her brain for a polite way to tell him to mind his own business and leave her alone to work. "Harry," she began, "I am perfectly capable of-"

"Yeah, but you won't," he cut in, grinning victoriously as if he had been preparing for this. Hermione wondered if he had run lines with Ginny, and then she wondered if she really was that predictable.

"Actually, I-"

"So just you, then?"

There was something in the way that Harry said, 'just you' that made Hermione sit up a bit straighter. She could feel her chin lifting in challenge. Sure, she may not look her best today, but she was running on about four hours of sleep, four cups of coffee, and anxiety. That didn't mean that she couldn't get a date for the wedding. She was Hermione Granger! She had Options! She had Prospects! She could Get a Date! "No," she said primly, "as a matter of fact, I _will_ be bringing someone."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Will you?" He asked, a grin sliding up his face and a wild look in his eye.

Hermione felt ameliorated by the speed with which this bold-faced lie was accepted. "Yep." She sniffed with more conviction that she felt.

"Who?" He asked eagerly.

Hermione scrambled around in her brain again, trying to fish up a name. "Theodore Knott." She said very clearly. He had worked at the desk next to hers in her old office and he owed her a favor.

"Blimey, Hermione," he said, blinking his bottle green eyes in surprise.

She rolled her own, "You don't need to look so shocked, Harry." She snapped waspishly and, before he could say anything else and blow her cover, she pointed to her door. "I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. You have your answer."

She was already leaned back over her parchment when Harry stood to go. "I'm really glad you're putting things behind you with Ron, Hermione." She didn't look up because she didn't want him to see her wince.

~.~

When Malfoy entered her office at nine o'clock exactly, she gaped at him for a good few seconds. There were dark circles under his eyes and stubble on his cheeks, but his dress was impeccable and his posture was as ramrod straight as it had been in their previous meetings, and so she pushed her initial worry from her mind.

"Good morning," she said evenly, shuffling his file to the top of the pile of parchments on her desk. She had hardly prepared for this. Given the recent issues with Mundungus, she hadn't really had the time to think about Malfoy, she realized with a guilty squirm in her stomach.

He bowed his head once in reply and gazed steadily directly past Hermione's left ear. She glanced over her shoulder to see what it was, but was greeted with only wall.

She cleared her throat when it became apparent that he wasn't going to actually use words. "Ahem. Tom says you're getting on well and I received your owl about the charity dinner, but is three weeks really enough to plan something of this size?"

His eyes snapped to her face for a moment and his left eyebrow quirked, but his face returned to neutral and his gaze slid back to the wall before she could interpret what the microexpression could mean. "Perhaps not."

There was rust in his voice, like he had gotten out of the habit of speaking, which was odd, since he had been fine- if not verbose- last week. "Right," she said slowly, flipping through his chart, "well, just keep me posted on what you want to do with that. I think it's a great idea," she added and again his eyes flickered to her, but his expression remained unreadable.

She was too tired for this today and she had other things to worry about.

"Will that be all?" Malfoy's voice cut through her reverie. He was looking at her now, but his face was like marble- cold and unreadable.

Hermione saw a flicker of the boy from Hogwarts, now, in the dismissal laced in his voice, but she was too tired to particularly care. "Yes." She answered curtly, as eager to have him gone as he seemed to be to leave.

He stood to go, taking his cane in one hand, and that was when she noticed the limp.

"Did something happen?" she asked, fearing a work-related injury and how much paperwork a lawsuit would mean for her.

"I fail to see how that is any of your concern, Granger," he said, his voice as cold as his stare. "Good day." And with that, he limped out of her office.

He had only been in the office for a total of six minutes and was gone before she had answered with proper goodbye, but she did not have the time to worry about this. Hermione shook her head, and resumed her work on the Mundungus case.

~.~

When Hermione arrived at the Three Broomsticks that evening, Ginny was seated at a table close to the bar, three empty shot glasses in front of her. Her head was resting on the table, her long hair falling in an elegant pool around her face so that her bright red ears were the only hint of skin visible above the table.

Hermione caught the bartender's attention and motioned for a butterbee_r_ while holding up one finger.

"Well, good news for Dung," Hermione said briskly, setting her bag on the floor by her feet, "I think they'll let him off with just a warning this time." Hermione allowed her voice to trail into nothing as Ginny lifted her head and looked at her.

"'Lo," she slurred.

"How are you doing?" Hermione asked as delicately as possible, appraising Ginny's booze-blushed face and the unhappy tilt of her mouth.

"Splendid," Ginny slurred, her bright brown eyes wide and skidding over Hermione's face unsteadily, her hands emphatically waving between their faces, "Absolutely excellent."

Hermione nodded and looked around the pub. It was mostly empty tonight, with one elderly wizard curled around a mug at the bar and a group of three portly middle-aged witches huddled together over a table in the back corner. "Ok," she answered slowly, and pulled the empty shot glasses further from Ginny's still-moving hands. "So, why the drinks?"

Ginny huffed and rolled her eyes, "Harry," she said, as though this were all the explanation anyone needed.

"Ah," said Hermione, figuring that it would be better to pretend to understand than to make Ginny explain. Maybe there wasn't a reason- Harry could be remarkably dense at times, and it would not be the first time that Ginny was upset over something that he absolutely hadn't noticed.

"He's got a new case," Ginny made a sour face.

Now Hermione understood, and she patted Ginny's hand delicately. "I'm sure it won't last for too long," she said bracingly. This was probably true- Harry was still trying to save the world, one criminal at a time, and so when he was actively on a case, he did very little besides hunt for the perpetrator, which meant that his cases didn't normally drag on for very long. Of course, this also meant that no one, not Ginny, Hermione, or the sun, saw Harry much until the case was concluded.

"It's very important, whatever this case is, but he's out of town now," the redhead continued, "and we haven't spoken in anything but owls since Friday!" The sentence came out of her mouth as though she had been bottling it up since then, and spilled onto the table like a dirty secret.

Hermione wasn't sure how to answer this. "Harry is-" she began delicately.

"Oh, I know how he is and I _know_ how important this probably is, but it's so ruddy lonely in that blasted apartment without him," Ginny sighed at the table, "I've been here since four, you know."

Hermione did not say that at least she had someone who cared if she came home at night, or at least she got to owl with someone who loved her. There would be no merit in saying those things. It would not make either of them feel any less self-pitying. Instead, Hermione glanced from the empty shot glasses to the clock on the wall. It was after eight. Had she been drinking the entire time?

"Oh, Ginny," she sighed, shaking her head, and tried for a change of subject, "got out of practice early, then?"

"We had a game yesterday, so no practice at all."

"Ah," Hermione answered, feeling a bit guilty that she had missed yet another of Ginny's games. The bartender, Grayson, plunked the mug of butterbeer down on the table so suddenly Hermione jumped.

Ginny eyed the drink reproachfully. "That's not alcoholic," she accused.

Hermione nodded and took a sip of her drink, willing her heartbeat to slow. She shouldn't have had that fifth cup of coffee. "I've had a long day," she said by way of explanation.

"That's the perfect time to get a strong drink! With alcohol in it!" Ginny said, waving her hands again.

Hermione shook her head, her hair brushing against her face as she did so, "No, I've got to go back to work after this, and I don't want to splinch myself apparating drunk."

Ginny wrinkled her nose at the mental image this statement provided, but didn't press the issue any further.

"So tell me about how things are going for the wedding," Hermione said instead, trying to keep the subject to something closer to neutral that Ginny could complain about, and she was hoping that Ginny would tell her something awful about Lavender. Not, of course, that Hermione was petty or vindictive like that, but she had been having an awfully long day, and she could really use the cheering up.

* * *

**Tuesday**

Hermione knocked on the office doorframe and smiled down at the wizard behind the desk.

"Oh, Hermione," he said, looking up and removing his reading glasses, and standing to shake her hand. "Nice to see you."

Theodore Knott was the only twenty year old, magical or muggle, Hermione knew who wore reading glasses.

"Hello, Teddy," she said, smiling up at him and gripping his hand firmly.

His eyes narrowed. "What do you want," he asked slowly, withdrawing his hand and taking a step back from her.

She blinked her eyes rapidly. "What makes you think I want anything, Teddy?"

"Whenever you call me that, it's because you want something. What is it? I'm not saying I won't do it, but I want to know what it is."

She huffed loudly. "Do you remember that time that I bailed you out with the goblin liaison office?" She reminded him, examining her wand delicately.

"Yes," he replied slowly, taking another step back. It had been a big deal when he had gotten himself in over his head, and his job and- more importantly- his gringotts account were on the line. He owed her something big for that one, and he was worried about what sort of favor she was trying to cash it in for now.

"Ron's getting married, you know," she tried to keep her voice light, and tried to keep her bitterness as smothered as possible.

"Yes," he said again, even slower.

"Fancy going to a wedding, Teddy?" She asked lightly, trying not to make the request sound too important.

"Weasley's wedding?" Teddy clarified.

Hermione nodded.

"With you?"

"Not as a date or anything," she clarified, rushing her words out before he got the wrong idea. It wasn't that Teddy was a bad bloke, or even unattractive, but she didn't want to make relations with her ex coworker any more awkward than they had been since her transfer.

He let out a breath she hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Of course not," he replied quickly, blinking down at her and clearly surprised by even the idea of it. "When is it?"

"Saturday after next," Hermione said, hoping that this could be all set up before the end of her lunch break.

Teddy went around to the other side of his desk to check his planner. His eyebrows knit together. "Oh, sorry," he mumbled, and Hermione's heart sank.

"I've got a meeting in Belgium that weekend. I'm getting inducted into the Western European Division of the Dragon International Group on Saturday."

"Wow," Hermione said, blinking rapidly. Theodore Knott had been working with dragon conservation groups for the past two years, and an induction into WEDDING meant that the world was starting to recognize the long hours that Knott had been putting in. "That's great, Knott. Really great!" She tried to be happy for him, she really did. "You've earned this. You should be very proud of yourself."

He bowed his head in gratitude, a light blush staining his cheeks as he smiled sheepishly up at her from under his eyelashes. "Thanks, Hermione. I could ask around for a date for you, if you want," he offered.

Hermione winced despite herself. Knott had been one of her closest allies in this department while she had worked here, and during the final breakup with Ron, she was fairly sure that she wouldn't have managed to keep her job without him. They were friends, almost, but not so close that she was willing to trust him to set her up on a blind date. "I'll be fine, Knott. Really. I'm not so desperate that I want other people to start trying to get a date for me."

Knott shrugged again, closing up his agenda, "Suit yourself, Hermione," he said. "I-"

"Anyway, I'll see you around," she rushed out, eager to leave the office before the conversation could get any more awkward, "I've got to nip by the department of mysteries before lunch," she shot out, "Bye." And she was striding back down the hall, trying very hard to think of someone to take as a date to this blasted wedding and wondering exactly when she should start pretending to have come down with the flu to skive out of it at the last minute.


End file.
